Ardennes Assault
by Antemurale
Summary: None of us were prepared for the Ardennes. When the clouds rolled in... so did the Germans. A novelization of the singleplayer campaign in Ardennes Assault.
1. Prologue: Twin Villages

**Company of Heroes 2: Ardennes Assault**

 **Prologue**

Private First Class Abel Nicholson was starting to hate the M3 Halftrack.

They were a rolling can of sardines. Halftrack, can. Sardines, he and the rest of the fresh meat, twelve men in total.

The halftrack was only supposed to carry eleven.

The M3 suddenly lurched to a stop. PFC Nicholson stood up, peering over the top of the halftrack's thinly-armored side. An array of tents and munitions lay under camouflage netting, behind a wall of sandbags. Timber-reinforced pillboxes with M2HB heavy machine guns guarded the site, and for good reason: it was the field command post, or C-P, of Dog Company, along with Baker and Able Companies. They were out here to rest. Dog was here to train.

Outside, someone blew a whistle. "Fall out! Let's go," the voice drawled in a southerner's accent.

Nicholson flopped out of the tin can, steadying his heavy pack on his shoulders, M1 Garand in hand. Unsheltered from the wind, he instantly felt the icy air poking at his body. Shivering, he hustled over towards the old, obese-sounding guy, falling in behind the rest of his squad.

"Alright, you ninety-day wonders, listen up! We're gonna be taking over sentry duty from the Airborne at Checkpoint Fox."

He took a quick pause. "Now seein' how there 'aint nothing there, we're going to build some stuff."

 _Build some stuff?_ Nicholson wasn't sure he had heard right.

The old man with two faded white stripes on his helmet—signifying that he was a Captain—continued. "Luck for y'all we've got rear echelon squads to pitch in. They've got it all figured out when it comes to buildn' defenses, so... they'll help with the checkpoint."

Nicholson swore inwardly. They were really going to "build some stuff"?

Two squads of soldiers, wearing brown overcoats—Nicholson and the rest of the recruits were wearing tan jackets—appeared from inside the HQ. After checking out at the HQ gate, they hustled over towards the old fat man.

"Well, look who we have here," the old guy said. "Welcome to the shin dig. Hope you've got nowhere else to be."

He waved at them, beckoning them in. "Fall in," he said. "Alright, let's move out, boys."

* * *

Private First Class Abel Nicholson was starting to miss the halftrack.

All those cramped hours, complaining about every single bump in the road, and so loud that conversing was hopeless. Now, he was _wanting_ a cramped, bumpy, loud ride.

It sure beat walking.

Especially when the snow is two feet deep and you have to _slave_ your way through the white powder. Even _walking_ was a challenge.

 _Jeez,_ Nicholson thought. _The Germans don't need to shoot me, I'll die tired before they ever get a shot off._

Noticing the recruits starting to slack off, the old man began another lecture. "Hop to it, boys. You know that son-of-a-gun Jackson'll never stop with the wise-crackin' if we're late."

Nicholson muttered another curse under his labored breath as they trudged towards Checkpoint Fox, a good distance away from where they had started.

* * *

"Captain Derby," a man's firm, powerful voice greeted the old man as they came near to the checkpoint. "Glad you could finally make it."

Captain Derby (the old man), let out a quick burst of a laugh. "Yeah, well, this war 'aint in no hurry to end, figured we had plenty of time to mosey-on over."

The other man, dressed just like Derby, but with an eagle sewn onto his coat sleeve, snorted in reply. "Well, we wouldn't want you boys pullin' a muscle hurryin' on our account."

The man waved towards the couple of soldiers already stationed at the checkpoint. "I'm going to get the men back to Rocherath for hot meals and showers. They could sure use it."

Nicholson watched as the man rounded up his subordinates, and moved off towards the northwest.

"Alright, this checkpoint's got to be flushed out. Gettin' a bit crowded around here," Captain Derby ordered. "If we're going to sit out the winter here, we need some cover. Let's start by building a fighting position over there—between the two trenches."

* * *

"I didn't come all the way to Europe to do this," Nicholson complained to a fellow recruit as he flung another shovel-full of dirt.

"Totally," the man grumbled. "Isn't this what engineers are for?"

Nicholson snickered. "Abel Nicholson, twenty-one, New York."

The man continued to industriously shovel dirt. "James Fraskis, twenty-seven, Detroit."

"I'd rather be shooting Jerries than digging ranger graves," Nicholson stated flatly.

Fraskis smirked, seconding the sentiment. "Looks more like a latrine, so far."

Finally, Nicholson and the rest of his squad finished. "Captain? We're done, sir."

The old fat man strode over, inspecting their handiwork. They had just dug out a circular three-foot-deep pit, seven feet wide. Big enough to stuff in all six men of Nicholson's squad, and yet small enough to kill them all at once should a grenade explode inside—it wasn't called a ranger grave for nothing.

He nodded. "Good. Get a fifty cal in there to cover that area."

"Yes sir," Nicholson's Sergeant replied. "You and you," he pointed to Nicholson and Fraskis. "Get over to that watchtower, get a Browning and a few belts of ammunition."

Nicholson, happy to do anything that wasn't related to dirt, saluted and took off towards the watchtower, Fraskis at his heels.

* * *

The PFC had just set up the M2HB .50 cal heavy machine gun on its tripod when the tree sixty feet in front of him exploded.

"Incoming! Take cover! Derby ordered. "Use the bunkers! We need a lookout on the watch tower!"

Nicholson ducked down low as more earsplitting explosions entered the air, snow and dirt blown into the air. Artillery shells peppered their position and the forest ahead, trees splintering under the explosive concussion. The other recruits and Rear Echelon squads scrambled into the trenches, taking cover before they got pulverized by the explosions.

Up in the watchtower, Captain Derby got on the radio. "Checkpoint Fox, contact report! Enemy artillery fire!"

"Roger Fox, hold and advise as needed," the man on the radio back at the C-P replied.

Captain Derby redirected his attention to his troops. "There's movement in the treeline,' he hollered. "Fritz is on us!"

Originally overhearing the radio transmission—the radio was tuned up so loud, the Private could hear it all the way out here—now hearing a command, Nicholson stood up just enough to peek through the machine gun's iron sights. He could clearly see German infantry emerging from the treeline. They started firing at him.

* * *

Nicholson started to rethink his "I'd rather be shooting Jerries" comment.

The Private steeled his nerves, put both trembling thumbs on the gun's trigger, and the M2 started spitting lead, massive smoldering brass casings dropping down into the fighting position. As he sprayed the enemy forces with his machine gun, dozens of other infantry, his squad included, started laying down energetic yet inaccurate fire on the enemy targets.

The Germans fanned out, hitting the dirt as they did so. Some dodged this way and that, all trying to get away from Nicholson's machine gun. He was feeling quite superman, now that they weren't shooting at him. He clenched his teeth as the gun recoiled in his grasp, his arms already sore from the constant kick of the Ma Deuce.

The machine gun suddenly clicked empty. It took Nicholson (in his fanatic state) three seconds to notice the gun had stopped firing. His Sergeant cursed, pushing him aside and inserting another belt into the M2HB's smoldering feed mechanism. "Nicholson, Fraskis! Get to the watchtower, and get more ammo!"

Now Nicholson was inseparable with the dirt pit he had just dug five minutes ago.

Seeing that the two recruits weren't moving, the Sergeant swore at the top of his lungs. "MOVE!"

Nicholson gathered his Garand and took off towards the watchtower, right behind Fraskis.

Bullets danced around them, hitting the snow with soft _pfft pfft pfft_ sounds. Nicholson didn't dare slow down—the drill Sergeant back in the States had once hollered "Stand still and you're a target" so loud that he spent the next hour with his ears ringing.

To say "vivid experience" was an understatement.

"Stay there," Fraskis informed Nicholson as he sprang up the watchtower. "I'll get the ammo, you catch."

Nicholson nodded, completely ignorant of the fact Fraskis's eyes were trained on the ladder and not at him.

Fraskis disappeared into the watchtower, and soon, three 60-round belts of 12.7mm x 99mm AP ammunition descended from above, Nicholson scrambling to catch them before they disappeared into the snow.

Fraskis started to descend, a few belts dangling from his shoulder. "Let's go!"

Nicholson hurried through the snow (which was like running through molasses), flattening out as soon as he reached the edge of the earthwork.

"Sir! Ammo," he reported as he deposited the belts at the edge of the giant foxhole. Fraskis followed suit.

His Sergeant, without taking his eyes off the attacking Germans, continued giving orders. "Nicholson, back on this—"

How he would have finished his sentence would never be known, since his head vanished.

A round entered and exited his head, blowing out considerable amounts of brain matter and pieces of skull at the same time. The gore sprinkled onto every dumbstruck surviving member of the squad. He dropped to the floor of the emplacement like a bag of cement.

Nicholson watched with his mouth open—probably drooling—as the fight continued. He suddenly got back to his senses, shaking off the red matter splattered all over his face. Spitting and cursing, he carefully stepped around the Sergeant's decapitated body, getting a grip on the M2, now silent.

"Fraskis, help me out and feed Mama here." Nicholson, noticing the rest of his squad wasn't moving, hollered over the cacophony of gunfire. "Don't just sit and watch! FIRE!"

The squad resumed combat operations, Fraskis loading the empty machine gun with ammunition, and the rest of them providing energetic yet inaccurate fire downrange. Though he was shaking from adrenaline and the very recent close encounter with death, Nicholson secured the M2's in his iron grasp, and the M2 began delivering death once more, at the rate of five hundred sentences per minute.

* * *

Before long, the attacking infantry were either dead or running. The recruits cheered.

"That's right! You mess with Uncle Sam, that's what you get!" Nicholson hollered.

Captain Derby's drawl came from the watchtower again as he operated the radio. _Seriously, did he have to say everything so loud?_ Nicholson wondered, off-track, if the old man had hearing problems, so that he had to talk real loud just to hear himself. "Checkpoint Fox, Contact report. Light infantry, advancing from the north-east."

"Roger, the radioman replied, the radio as loud as Derby. "We're getting reports from all over the area. Germans are moving in from the east, and to the north between here and Rocherath."

Captain Derby pushed C-P for answers. "What's the status of Jackson and his airborne team in Rocherath?"

A sigh came over on the radio. "No contact as of yet. Will update you as we hear news."

* * *

"Hold your positions!" Captain Jackson hollered, his voice overcoming the sporadic small-arms fire. Keep those crossroads open!"

Lieutenant John "Johnny" Vastano, M1 Carbine in hand, hustled over to his Captain's position. "Vastano reporting."

As soon as he caught a glimpse of his most trusted Lieutenant, Jackson's expression softened. He pointed one finger down the street. "Enemy positions in those houses! Clear them out!"

Vastano grinned. "Glad to, sir." The Lieutenant whistled. "Sergeant Shalter! Take your squad and flank from the left. Corporal Hallway! Take mine and engage them head-on, drawing their fire while the Sergeant feeds them pineapples."

The veteran Sergeant, scars of experience in Normandy and Holland etched on his face, nodded. "Would the Krauts like 'em grilled or raw?" He was referring to the "pineapples," the Mk. 2 fragmentation grenades they carried.

Vastano grinned, understanding the Sergeant's reference. "Grilled, of course."

Shalter nodded again, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Time to get cooking."

"Move out!"

* * *

Vastano followed his squad and took up positions behind a low stone wall directly across the street from the building Germans had holed up in. Corporal Hallway silently motioned for two of his privates, Synaski and Neeter, to get into position. They hefted their M1919A6 light machine guns into position, bipods resting on the top of the wall.

Vastano dared a peek over the lip of the wall. Shalter and the rest of his squad were crouched by the side of the building, ready to spring into action.

"Engage!"

Synaski and Neeter stood up, aiming their guns. Twin saltshakers of death opened up at the same time. Although they were both massive targets, the sheer volume of fire they dumped at the building twenty feet away was more than enough to send the Germans cowering.

At the same moment, Shalter pulled the pin on his grenade, grilled (otherwise referred to as "cooked") it for two seconds, and lobbed them into the open windows.

A satisfying _whump_ echoed as it detonated.

Without a single order, both of Vastano's gunners stopped firing, ducking back behind their cover. Simultaneously, Shalter and his squad kicked in the door, M1 Thompson sub-machine guns poised at their fingertips.

Four copies of the iconic weapons belched at once as the Sergeant and his squad of Paratroopers cleared the building, the screams of Germans chasing the SMGs as they fired. The carbines in the other squad members' hands barked like wild dogs defending their territory.

Pretty soon, Shalter exited the building, hollering a crisp "Clear!"

Vastano waved his boys out. "Into the building! Firing positions!"

The paratroopers made a beeline for the door, doing everything they could to reduce the amount of time they spent in the open. Vastano, the first to arrive at the other side of the street, covered his squad with his carbine, ready to put a hole through anyone wearing a gray helmet who dared to enter the keen-eyed Lieutenant's line-of-sight.

"All in, sir!"

Vastano stole one last glance down the street, then dove inside.

* * *

The Lieutenant stomped his way upstairs, his squad already performing overwatch on the area. The Germans had been repelled—for now.

"Attention! Captain in the house," Neeter, on sentry duty, hollered.

"Vastano, what's the SitRep when you came in?" Captain Jackson asked.

Vastano shook his head. "Not good. We got Krauts on all sides. Village is surrounded."

His Captain pondered this for a moment. "Can we get across to Krinkelt?"

The Lieutenant shook his head again. "No. The whole place is crawling with Germans."

"Alright, we need to raise other sectors—confirm what the hell's goin' on here." The Captain looked at his Lieutenant. "Vastano, our radio's gonna need a boost—get over to the tower in the forest. We can tie into it."

"Roger that. Squad, on me! Shalter, let's go!"

Vastano gathered a Pathfinder squad as they moved out, trudging through the snow. On the outskirts of town, Vastano ordered everyone to take a knee.

"Captain's orders: take the radio tower in the woods. After we secure it, Pathfinders, you guys get our radio hooked up so Jackson can make a call. Understood?"

The men nodded. "Yes sir."

"Screaming Eagles, move out!"

* * *

Soon, the tower was within sight. Vastano ordered them to flatten out in the snow, weapons tight. He was too, observing the enemy position through a pair of binoculars.

"I see Fallschmjagers, eight of 'em. Another three normal Krauts, manning an MG," he informed his boys.

"Roger sir, targets confirmed," a Pathfinder replied, doing the exact same thing Vastano was.

Vastano worked out a battle plan. "Alright, listen up. Shalter, crawl up the right. My squad, to the left. Corporal Hallway, take command. Pathfinders, you guys stay here with me. You guys take out the Kraut MG. As soon as you pop their heads, Shalter, storm."

Nothing more had to be said. The battle-hardened man nodded. "Let's go, paras."

Corporal Hallway waved the rest of Vastano's squad out. "Rest of us, covering fire."

They nodded, starting to inchworm their way through the snow.

A few minutes later, they were in position. Vastano could hear his heart hammering away in his chest, his carbine ready to lay covering fire on the approximate direction of the sandbagged defensive position.

Two cracks of thunder tore through the air, and scored hits on the German defenders. Vastano could clearly see bright red vapor spray into the air.

The carbine instantly kicked in Vastano's arms, as did the LMGs and the M1 Carbines in his squad's hands to the left. Shalter's boys to the right burst forward, the Sergeant leading the way, Thompson blazing.

The poor bastards only had the time to look up before they were scythed down by a hail of .45 slugs. A perfect ambush.

"Clear!"

Trudging through the deep snow, Vastano and the rest of his squad hustled towards the radio tower, their original objective. As Vastano's subordinates organized his boys into defensive positions, the Pathfinders were busy at work, wiring the radio into the twenty-foot-tall mast.

Finally, they flashed the Lieutenant a thumbs up. He picked up a flare gun, launching an orange ball of fire into the air.

Jackson's voice immediately came over the radio. "Jackson to C-P, Jackson to C-P. Sitrep, do you read me?"

A couple moments later, a static-obstructed voice called on the radio. "Edwards reporting—good to hear you boys are still kickin' out there. Go ahead, Jackson."

"We're surrounded here," the Captain reported. "We're holding onto the village center, and we've just managed to capture the radio tower, but there's Germans everywhere."

"Roger. Hold your position until advised further, over."

Vastano waited, tense, as a counter-attack could come upon them any minute. The more time this took, the higher the risk of getting screwed, just like the Germans.

Edward's voice came over the radio again. "The entire infantry regiment is mobilizing. Hold your position.

"We're going to try and establish a corridor from Krinkelt to Rocherath so you can fall back. Stand by for updates, out."

* * *

"Listen up," Captain Edwards commanded his men. "I don't know how long this is going to take, so I want a B.A.R. weapons rack set up."

"Once that thing is up, I want infantry to gun up." He redirected his attention to one of his Lieutenants. "Get your boys over there and grab some Brownings."

The LT saluted. "Christmas comes early, fellows," he said, grinning at the rest of his squad. Then he started _individually_ picking out who was to get the guns, who was to carry the ammo, and so forth.

Staff Sergeant Fredrick "Freddy" Miller watched this scene with steely eyes from the height of an M10 Tank Destroyer. _Junior officers,_ he sniveled, shaking his head. _So green. Don't they know that officers aren't supposed to micromanage every detail?_

The Captain raised his voice. "Alright Baker—get ready to move out. We need to break through enemy forces to get to reach the Airborne boys in Rocherath."

He picked up the radio. "Jackson, this is Edwards. We're going to try and form an evac corridor."

"Roger. Moving now." The reply from Captain Jackson was short and to the point.

Captain Edwards waved at Miller in his M10.

"Move out!" the tank commander shouted at his driver.

The vehicle's engine revved, pitching the tank destroyer forward. They fell in line, right behind the two M5A1 light tanks.

They quickly made it to the edge of Krinkelt. "This is Derby," came an old man's voice on the radio. "My company has sight lines into the attack area. Dog company can support your advance from here."

From the open-topped tank, Miller could see the action unfold. Kraut forces were moving on Krinkelt, Derby's green recruits just barely holding them back.

 _Well,_ he thought. _Time for the veterans to do the heavy lifting._

"Driver! Follow those Stuarts!" He bossed. "Loader, get AP into the breech."

"Roger that." Private Andrew Zacheri hefted a 76.2mm Armor-piercing Capped round into the breech of the M10's three-inch cannon, sliding the breech closed as he finished. "Cannon hot."

Up ahead, the machine guns and 37mm "squirrel rifles" of the M5A1s chewed up the attacking infantry and light vehicles, the 37mm cannon's shell, normally too light to do more than scratch a panzer, now punched through Kraut halftracks like they were made of cardboard.

Miller, the veteran commander that he was, kept his head on a swivel, as did his loader. They scanned the two sides and the front, looking for anything they could shoot at.

"Panzer II, possibly a Luchs, ten o'clock," his loader reported. They both ducked down, Zacheri and the Staff Sergeant simultaneously cranked the turret-revolution wheels as fast as they could, both of them already accustomed to the labor-intensive job.

"Driver, halt," Miller ordered, easing Gunner Corporal Alex Stevenson's work-load. Stevenson peeked through the main gun's sight, zeroing in on the Panzer II. As the M10 ground to a halt, the crosshairs stopped right in front of the moving Luchs.

"On the way!"

The cannon shot backwards, unleashing a cloud of smoke as a 17-pound hardened steel shell smashed through the sound barrier and knocked a hole clean through the Panzer like a shotgun through cream cheese.

Before Miller could yell "Driver, forward," Zacheri had already flung open the breech, slid the spent brass case out of the chamber (with a gloved hand, thank you) and was in the process of loading another round.

"Gun up!"

The tank's treads started grinding again as the tank destroyer continued forward once more, flanked on either side by supporting infantry.

* * *

"Well, that was a cakewalk," Miller commented as they parked on the side of the dirt road leading to Rocherath.

Zacheri grunted. "Compared to what we've faced, totally," he concurred.

The Private's statement was true. From North Africa to Normandy to Paris and then all the way to Belgium, they had fought in this M10. This hunk of steel and fire had lasted for almost one and a half a year on the battlefield, now, and they had twenty-seven white stripes painted on the olive barrel of their M10, signifying 27 Panzer kills. They were probably one of the most experienced crews in Eisenhower's arsenal.

The battle-hardened crew listened to the radio as they completed their objective. "Okay, listen up," Edwards called. "Airborne is going to fall back along the road to HQ. Provide supporting fire as they move."

Down below, another man gave his own set of orders. "Vastano, you take the first group and get them back to the base. I''l bring up the second group as soon as you've pushed off."

The man—Vastano, Miller guessed—replied. "Yes sir. First group, on me!"

Miller redirected his gaze to the snowy horizon, scanning for enemy tanks as swathes of paratroopers high-tailed it back to base.

 _Hurry up,_ Miller complained. _Even snails don't take this long._ As fast as they were on foot, they were nothing compared to a vehicle, especially an M10.

Finally, the man's voice came over the radio again. "Okay, that's all of us. I'm covering the rear."

Miller looked down towards the dirt road as a man, clad in the fashion of a Captain, started running towards Krinkelt with a bunch of other guys with eagles on their uniform sleeves. The Corporal instantly recognized them as members of the 101st Airborne, the same division that Miller had encountered back in Normandy when he hustled to Carentan to save their sorry asses from a spanking by Kraut Panzers.

"Ambush!" Zacheri yelled, yanking the Staff Sergeant back to the present.

Miller instantly got his bearings on the attacker. _Oh, snap._

"Whoa! The Krauts got Panzer Fours here," one of the Riflemen in the snow yelled.

Before the man had finished his sentence, Miller and Zacheri already had the M10's turret pointed in the right direction. Stevenson hadn't moved from the targeting telescope, and quickly laid his sights down on the Panzer IV, and fired.

A supersonic hunk of metal screamed through the air, barreling straight towards the German tank, whose thick turret armor was still not enough to stop the fury of a 76.2mm shell fired from an M10 at point-blank range.

Miller screamed "Driver! Floor it!" as the Panzer IV's ammunition cooked off, blowing its turret into the air, doing a somersault before laying down to rest on the ice-cold snow.

"Gun up!"

As the M10 started grinding through the snow, a cohort of three long-barreled Panzer IVs, along with swathes of supporting infantry, emerged from the treeline.

"They're hundreds of them," Miller commented, forgetting that the radio switch was on the side labeled ON.

The Captain on the ground was shouting orders, but they were drowned out by the sound of the M10's roaring engine.

Miller's peripheral vision caught the muzzle flash of a Panzer IV.

"Bail out!" he yelled, even before the tank round crumpled the M10's thin side armor and burrowed into the engine compartment.

Miller knew they had about ten seconds before the gasoline-fueled radial engine caught on fire and exploded. He quickly vaulted over the top of the turret, as did Zacheri and Stevenson. His driver, Private Jeremy Kage, propped open his hatch, as did Radio Operator Corporal Ricky Cowalsky.

"Out! Out!" Miller roared, waving at them to hurry. Six seconds had already passed. Now Seven. Now eight.

Kage and Cowalsky slipped down from the M10, dropping onto the pavement below.

Not a moment too soon.

A massive boom entered the air, followed by a thick plume of black smoke as their beloved TD exploded, parts of her sprinkled all over the immediate area.

Swearing, they quickly joined Miller, Stevenson, Zacheri, and a clump of paratroopers as they ran for their lives, back towards Dog Company stationed at the edge of Krinkelt.

Miller had never been so happy to see green recruits in his entire life.

"Let's go! Let's go!" A soldier was standing straight up, waving at the retreating force to hurry. More accustomed to riding in a tank, Miller and the rest of his crew found themselves being outrun by hardened paratroopers and even the fresh meat right out of Basic.

It took too long, but he and the rest of his crew safely made it into Dog's defensive line. M2HB "Ma Duce" machine guns, freshly-manned M1 57mm anti-tank guns, and a plethora of cannon fodder covered their retreat, holding off the German attackers—for the moment.

Miller continued, running back towards the Command Post. He had seen enough Krauts for one day.

* * *

"Where is Jackson?" Vastano demanded as he stormed into the field C-P, right as Miller and the rest of his crew stepped into the base, already crowded with the remnants of Able company, survivors of Edward's evac corridor force, and some wounded fellows from Dog.

Captain Edwards glanced over at the commander of Dog company. "Derby, have you seen Jackson?"

The old, fat veteran of the Great War shook his head. "Lost sight of him fallin back."

Vastano swore. Edwards grimaced as he listened to a Situation Report on the radio. "Germans are pouring in more troops. What's the plan?"

Captain Derby wasted no time in passing judgment. "Fall back, 'aint no more point in wasting lives here. We'll link up with whoever is left, and figure out what just hit us, coordinate a defense."

Miller shook his head. The war just got a whole lot more complicated.


	2. Chapter 1: Elsenborn Ridge

**Company of Heroes 2: Ardennes Assault**

 **Chapter One**

 **Elsenborn Ridge**

 **Dog Company**

The music of trees exploding in the distance played in Private Abel Nicholson's ears as he shivered his way towards the old man—Captain Derby.

"Alright boys, don't worry too much—we've got artillery support to counter the Germans. We gotta make damn sure to hold our line."

Nicholson's sneered. "How we gunna to hold our line if our teeth don't stop chattering?"

One of the Lieutenants narrowed his eyes, trying to find the guy who was responsible.

Nicholson glanced up innocently. The LT stole a glance at him then directed his attention at the person next to him.

"Barrage complete in figures 0-1 minutes," the man on the radio reported.

 _Captain's radio,_ Nicholson thought. _Revealing our position to the enemy 24-7._

"Dismissed!" the Captain shouted. "Let's go shore up those defenses!"

* * *

Thankfully, the defenses had already been built by the time Nicholson arrived.

"Well, looks the the Engineer Corps have finally done something," Nicholson noted.

Fraskis nodded. "If I see one more bag of—"

"Would you look at that," Nicholson cut him off. "Ma Deuce."

"First one there gets to fire the gun!" Fraskis began to sprint towards the fighting position, Nicholson hot on his heels. The cold dissipated in an instant.

Unfortunately, when they got there, they noticed four men with brown overcoats—Rear Echelon infantry—already in the fighting position. Lying low against the dirt berm, Nicholson hadn't spotted them from far away.

Nicholson swore in disappointment. He and Fraskis reluctantly took cover in the trench in front of fifty-cal. The rest of the squad soon joined them.

"Come on, come on, I want to _shoot_ the Krauts. I mean, I can't even watch them blow up," Nicholson complained. "Stop firing shells, damn it, and let them come!"

"Soon enough, you'll see enough Krauts to drown in," his new Sergeant informed him.

His Sergeant was right. As soon as the artillery lifted, dozens of German infantry materialized from the woods. Some of them stood behind the cover of tree trunks and began firing, while others hurried across the road, firing automatic weapons as the did.

"Take cover!" the Sergeant yelled. The Browning M2 barked to life behind them, and Nicholson took that as his opportunity to stand up for a peek.

A hailstorm of bullets quickly convinced him to remain in cover.

His Sergeant pulled the pin out of an Mk. 2 "Pineapple" grenade and lobbed it in the general direction of the enemy. A soft _crump_ filled the air as it went off.

"Fire!" Nicholson's Sergeant ordered, leading by example. Nicholson, not one to miss out on the shooting, immediately stood up, aimed at the nearest German, and fired. The man's back blew open and fell face-first into the snow.

Elated at his first kill, Nicholson quickly aimed at another target, and squeezed the trigger. The rifle leaped in his hands, but he missed his mark. Nicholson aimed again, then squeezed off another round, carving a groove into the tree the German guy was taking cover behind.

Nicholson cursed. "Why is it so hard to aim this thing?"

"Just hold your rifle over the target for an extra second. It really helps your shot," Fraskis suggested.

Nodding, Nicholson stared down the M1 Garand's iron sights, held it shakily over his target, then pulled the trigger. The man dropped to the ground, blood spilling out of his chest as he did.

Nicholson whistled. "Thanks, man!"

"No problem," Fraskis replied.

Nicholson continued to fire four more shots before a loud metallic ping rang through the air, signifying that Nicholson's rifle was out of ammunition. He quickly fished around in his pocket for another 8-round clip, and was about to insert it into his rifle when his Sergeant pulled him down.

"What was that for?" Nicholson demanded.

"You dope," his Sergeant scolded. "Take cover when you reload!"

Nicholson muttered a reply as he inserted the clip into his gun. He stood back up, and continued to engage the German infantry.

* * *

Soon enough, there was nothing left to shoot at. Jerries either lay dead or had retreated into the woods.

"That's all of them?" Nicholson said. "Aww, come on, I only dropped, like, five of them."

"They'll be back," his Sergeant said. "That was probably just the recon element of their force. Reload and check your ammo."

"Sergeant Taylor!" Nicholson jumped at the voice and turned around, seeing the Lieutenant who was looking through the crowd back at the Battalion C-P. He swallowed hard.

"Uncle Sam," Sergeant Taylor said, happy to see the Lieutenant. "Orders, sir?"

"We got eyes on enemy build up west of the road," the LT said. "Germans hold a key position there. If we can open it up, we might be able to get some help sent this way."

"Swell. What can we do to help?" Taylor asked.

"Get your squad and follow me," the LT said.

"Alright, you dopes. Move out." Sergeant Taylor ordered. Fraskis shrugged and followed the Lieuntenant. Nicholson soon joined him, and the Sergeant held up the rear.

* * *

They followed the Lieutenant back to the Command Post, then turned right. They trudged into a small path that cut through the woods.

Guns fired, and someone hollered, "Get down, small arms fire!"

Nicholson did as he was told, as did the rest of the assault party. Now that everyone was out of the way, Nicholson could see a group of German infantry taking cover behind a sandbag wall.

"Take cover boys!" The Lieutenant hollered. Lying prone, he shoulderd his M1 Thompson began to fire at the German infantry, galvanizing the rest of the infantry into action. They began to fire back at the German infantry, sidestepping into cover as the did so.

"Grenade! Go!" Sergeant Taylor ordered.

Nicholson stopped firing, grabbed a Frag grenade off of his uniform, pulled the pin off, and tossed it at the infantry behind the sandbags.

The German infantry yelled at each other and quickly shuffled away from the grenade. As soon as it detonated, they dived back into cover.

"Sergeant! Get your boys over there," the LT ordered as he stuffed a new 30-round magazine into the Thompson. "Private Hoyt! Suppressive fire with the B.A.R.!

"Move! Move! Get to that point!" Sergeant Taylor immediately burst into action, making his way towards the sandbags, running behind trees for cover as he did so. The rest of his squad followed suit, Nicholson and Fraskis included. As the LT fired a long burst to keep the Germans behind cover, Taylor and the rest of his Riflemen crept up to the sandbag wall. As soon as the LT's SMG ran out of ammunition, the Germans poked their heads out of cover.

At under a yard's range, Taylor, Nicholson, Fraskis, and the rest of the squad instantly blew their brains out onto the snow.

"All right, we're in business," The Lieutenant commented. He got off of the ground and herded the two squads forward. "Let's move. Get the B.A.R. to the middle of the squad."

* * *

Soon enough they arrived at the edge of the road, which was oddly empty. Nicholson was about to walk into the middle of the road when Sergeant Taylor yanked him back.

"Idiot," Taylor breathed. "There's an MG down the road by the sandbags."

Nicholson realized that if he had walked out of cover, he would have probably joined those Germans in heaven. _Oh wait, they probably went to hell._

"Sergeant," the LT said. "I'll pop some smoke on them and give you some fire support. You lead your boys and get up-close and personal. A frag wouldn't be amiss."

"Yes sir," Taylor said. "On your feet, Rifles."

One of the Riflemen in the LT's squad stuck a rifle grenade into his Garand and fired. A plume of smoke trailed the grenade as it flew through the air in a graceful arc, grabbing the attention of everybody there.

Germans included. Which, of course, was part of the plan.

"Go!" Taylor shouted. The squad raced towards the MG, whose crew was coughing at the smoke and shouting at each other.

Nicholson made a beeline for the sandbags, just like Fraskis. He couldn't see the Germans in the smoke; he didn't need to. Fraskis yanked the pin out of an Mk. 2 Pineapple and tossed it at the general direction of the machine gun.

By the time the smoke cleared and the rest of the squad arrived, four dead Germans lay dead on the sandbags.

"Get that thing ready for action," Taylor ordered. "Fraskis, get on the gun. Nicholson and Trombly, pick up the ammo."

Fraskis smirked. "First one there gets to fire the gun."

* * *

"Good job," the LT said. "Easy Company's sending support. They'll keep sending squads as long as they can. Just hold the area."

"Well, I'm sure this can come in handy," Fraskis said, revealing his captured MG.

"German MG34, 900 rounds a minute," the LT said, slightly impressed. "Set it up on the sandbags over there."

As Fraskis hauled the MG to the sandbags, the LT received a call on the radio.

"All stations be advised. Friendly squad requires immediate support. Check your map for grid point."

The LT ordered everyone to set up security, then pulled out a map and studied it.

"That house is just down the street," the LT thought aloud. Then he switched to his official all-business tone. "Alright, boys, we're going to go save their sorry asses."

"All the way over there?" Fraskis complained, the MG34 already burdening his shoulder.

Nicholson shrugged. "Well, I'll go anywhere I get to shoot Krauts."

* * *

Sergeant Taylor led the way to the indicated building. Spying infantry in the courtyard, he instantly ducked behind cover and ordered a halt.

"Here's the plan," he began. "Fraskis, you set up the MG right at the corner there, where it can fire into the courtyard and suppress those sons of guns. Uncle Sam, you take the left flank, and I'll take the right flank. We pop smoke at them. As soon as Fraskis fires, we move in."

The LT nodded. "Sounds good to me."

Fraskis set up the MG34 on its tripod, and Nicholson fed it with a belt of German ammo. "Uncle Sam" took his squad and looped around to the left, while Taylor led the rest to the right.

Again, the man in the LT's squad fired smoke into the courtyard. The Germans immediately redirected their attention towards the courtyard's main entrance, where they could see Fraskis, Nicholson, and Trombly. One of them shouted orders, and several of the Germans peeled off and shifted positions to counter this counter-attack.

Fraskis began firing, and found that the MG34 significantly easier to handle than the M2HB, which jostled the operator every time it fired. This machine gun had a much more gentle kick, making it easier for Fraskis to hit something.

And to trigger-happy. Before he knew it, he had blown through an entire belt. Nicholson loaded a second belt, and Fraskis continued providing fire support at the Germans in the compound.

When the Germans began cowering on the ground, Taylor and the Lieutenant led their squads and cut in from the sides, Garands barking. They cut the Germans down like a scythe through autumn wheat.

"Cease fire! Cease fire!" Sergeant Taylor hollered.

The squad inside the building exited single-file, and assembled in the courtyard.

"You saved our ass," one of them said. "Owe you one sir!"

The Lieutenant just smiled, as if he knew something they didn't. "Derby, this is Lieutenant Goodman. Friendlies have been rescued."

"Goodman, this is Derby," the Captain drawled. "Well done. But we need some help here back at the ridge. We could sure use the boys you just rescued."

"Roger that," Goodman replied. He handed the radio back to the radioman. "Captain wants us back at base. Let's get moving."

* * *

They hitched a ride on one of Easy company's M3 Halftacks as they returned, and even though it was cramped, loud, and shook them around like they were riding on a jackhammer, Nicholson was disappointed when the Lieutenant— _Was his name really Goodman?_ —ordered them to dismount. They made their way towards Captain Oldman.

"More of Easy company just got here, sir," the Lieutenant reported.

"Good," Derby replied. "We're going to need every man we've got. I called in some heavy artillery to buy time for you boys and Easy to get here. Now, Battalion reports artillery has gone through their ammo."

The Captain studied his map, littered with little pieces that indicated where his units were. A handful of them had been removed from the map and were sitting in an otherwise-empty K-ration container. "Plus, the damn Germans have taken out a quarter of our troops." The Captain redirected his attention towards Nicholson and the rest of the Rifleman standing there. "Tread lightly, men!"

"Yes sir," they all chorused.

"Now, you, with that German MG," Derby called. "We've got a hole in our lines on the left flank. A Kraut Panzer destroyed a Fighting Position before we could stop it. We don't have suppressive fire support over there, so I need you to set up at the sandbags just behind the trench. Got that, son?"

Fraskis nodded. "Understood, sir."

"Good hunting, boys!"

* * *

Immediately after Fraskis had gotten the MG set up on the sandbags, a Panzer IV appeared, complete with supporting Jerries.

Fraskis cursed as he opened up on the German infantry. "Panzer!"

"Rifle Grenade!" Lieutenant Goodman shouted. Nicholson watched as the man who had fired the two smoke grenades load his Garand with a different rifle grenade.

The rifle popped as it fired, flinging the grenade in a beautiful ballistic arc, detonating against the front of the Panzer's turret.

And did nothing.

Taylor cursed. "Where are the anti-tank guns?"

"They're busy!" the Lieutenant hollered, nodding in the direction of the anti-tank battery stationed behind their lines. Several M1 57mm ATGs were hard at work, engaging the enemy tanks that pushed against the US formation to their right.

The Panzer fired its main gun, delivering a high explosive shell into the middle of the trench. The guy who fired the rifle grenade instantly disappeared, and something hit Nicholson's right shoulder, startling him. He swatted it away, fearing that it was a grenade.

A severed hand.

"That's it," Nicholson shouted. Dropping the MG ammunition and tossing away his Garand, he turned and ran for the C-P.

"Hey!" Fraskis shouted, clearly appalled. "Where are you going?"

"Deserters will be shot!" Goodman threatened.

Nicholson kept running.

The Lieutenant shook his head. "Deal with him later!"

With nothing to stop it, the Panzer IV advanced across the road. Taylor and Goodman both tackled the remaining men, keeping their heads down as the Panzer IV fired its machine guns at them. Fraskis and Trombly both cowered behind the sandbag wall, hoping that the Panzer IV's bullets would be eaten up by the bags full of sand standing between them and the German tank.

The long-barreled 75mm gun fired again, this time at Fraskis and Trombly, teaching their pilfered MG34 and the sandbags how to fly.

Trombly began to scream, curling up in a ball and covering his ears. Fraskis started to panic, debating whether or not to run away like Nicholson.

 _Deserters will be shot._

Fraskis looked back in the direction of the C-P, trying to spot Nicholson. He thought he saw something, and hefted his Garand, readying the gun. His eyesight turned red.

 _Damn well should be. Leaving us to die._

Fraskis aimed down the Garand's iron sights. He almost pulled the trigger, but then he realized something. The figure was getting bigger and bigger. Which meant that the guy was running _towards_ them.

Odd.

"Fraskis!" Taylor shouted, catching his attention. "Get back in cover!"

Fraskis ignored the Sergeant and the German attackers, and peered back towards the C-P. The same guy was still running towards them, but Fraskis could see him more clearly now. He still couldn't see the guy's face, but he could tell that he was holding something long over his shoulder.

 _Something long,_ Fraskis thought. _Over his shoulder._

A lightbulb turned on in Fraskis' mind. _A Bazooka?_

Instantly the anger dissipated from Fraskis, as he realized that he, the Lieutenant, and the rest of the men probably mistook Nicholson's intentions.

The guy got closer and closer, and Fraskis squinted at the face. It _was_ Nicholson.

Nicholson began to slow down. Fraskis immediately got to his feet.

"Get back here, Private! You'll get shot, us or them!" Taylor shouted.

Fraskis ignored the Sergeant again, making his way towards Nicholson. He glanced to his left as he did so, and watched as Riflemen and Rear Echelon soldiers desperately holding back the German infantry, protecting the anti-tank gun battery stationed a bit behind the lines. A strange-looking tank with a tall, boxy structure sitting on its chassis instead of a turret lumbered forward, bouncing an AP shell off of its front armor. Its stubby main gun boomed as it replied, tossing several men into the air like they were a child's night-night dolls.

Fraskis turned towards Nicholson, stopping just in front of him. "Here, let me help."

"I've got this," Nicholson managed, breathing hard. The two men hustled towards the Panzer IV, which was busy trying to crush Sergeant Taylor, the Lieutenant, and the remaining infantry under its treads. They thwarted its efforts by ducking into the trench whenever it made a run, while they picked off attacking German infantry when the tank was busy traversing.

"Stay—away!" Nicholson shouted between breaths, his eyes gleaming with hate. As soon as he got close enough to the tank, he balanced the tube on his shoulder, and aimed at the thinner side armor of the tank.

A tongue of fire leaped from the rear of the M9 Bazooka as the rocket-propelled shape-charge warhead roared forward, catching the Panzer IV in the side of its turret. There was no fireball, just a dull plume of gray smoke, but the sound could be heard across the ridge.

The Panzer IV's gun barrel drooped towards the ground, and the tank slowly rolled to a halt, but then the engine revved and it accelerated forward.

"What the," Nicholson exclaimed. "I thought that it was dead!"

"Do you have any more ammo?" Fraskis asked.

"Yeah, here," Nicholson indicated with a glance. Fraskis quickly pulled another 60mm rocket out from the pouch and handed it to Nicholson, who slipped it into the rear of the tube.

"Stay clear of the rear end of this thing," Nicholson reminded. Fraskis quickly stepped to the side, not wanting to regrow his eyebrows.

Nicholson aimed at the rear of the Panzer IV, which seemed to be trying to get away from the ridge. All of a sudden, it ran into an anti-tank mine and came to an abrupt halt, its left track blown clean off.

"Hah! Teach you for trying to run from a fight," Nicholson taunted as he pulled the trigger.

The Bazooka made a terrific _whoosh_ as it fired, and this time, it connected with the rear of the tank, blowing the engine cover off of the Panzer as it detonated. The top hatch did not open, but the driver and radioman's hatches in the front of the tank did, and the two Jerries slid off the front of the tank and made for the woods.

"Shoot them, damn it, shoot them!" Nicholson shouted. Fraskis shouldered his Garand, but he couldn't get a clear shot at the two Germans.

Nicholson breathed a curse. Fraskis and Nicholson started to chase after them, trying to get a clear shot on their target.

"Fraskis! Get into cover," Taylor ordered. His eyes widened in surprise as he realized Nicholson was there, holding a Bazooka. The Sergeant _did_ notice that a Bazooka was responsible for the destruction of the tank, but he did _not_ expect that it would be in the hands of the would-be deserter.

Taylor was about to commend the Private for his actions—even though he had disobeyed orders—but he was interrupted by a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye. A squad of German infantry surged across the road, automatic rifles in their hands.

He quickly shouldered his Garand and got a shot off at one of the Germans. Lieutenant Goodman and Corporal English took out another two. But the fourth and last German halted just on top of the trench and pointed his weapon at the three living men in the trench.

 _We're dead_.

The German began to fire, spraying them with deadly automatic fire. Taylor watched as English's stomach was sawed open, intestines and blood splattering on the trench floor. Suddenly his left leg exploded in pain, and he crumpled to the floor.

He stole a glance at Goodman, who was lying against the trench wall, clutching the right side of his ribcage, blood already staining his uniform.

The German suddenly hopped into the trench, towering over Taylor. Keeping his rifle trained on the two wounded men, he surveyed the carnage inside the trench.

Hans (or whoever he was) aimed his gun at the Lieutenant, eyeing the single stripe on his helmet. Taylor saw this as his chance. With one last burst of energy, he jumped at the German, knocking him down and pinning the weapon to the floor.

He ignored the burning sensation on his palm and the stabs of pain from his left leg. Taylor drew back his arm and landed his fist square on the Kraut's chin.

Unfazed, the Kraut bloodied Taylor nose by head-butting him with his helmet. The rolled around, wresting with each other on the ground.

"Move, I can't get a shot!"

 _Was that Goodman?_

Taylor rolled to the left, putting all of his body weight on the Kraut rifle. He stole a glance at Goodman, who seemed to have a pistol in his right hand, his left hand still clutching his ribs.

Goodman fired, but probably due to the pain, or maybe because he didn't want to accidentally kill Taylor, he missed.

Taylor watched as the Kraut reached for a knife on his kit.

He cursed, sure that this was the day that he would go to heaven and meet God.

"Die!"

A sickening crunch cut through the gunfire. The Kraut jerked violently and the knife dropped out of his hands, then he lay very, very still.

The Sergeant caught his breath and looked up. He found himself staring at Private First Class Abel Nicholson.

"Don't worry, sarge," Nicholson panted. "I broke his neck."

Taylor looked at the Kraut, whose neck had been bent unnaturally far to the left. Then he saw the Bazooka that Nicholson had propped up against the trench wall.

Taylor sighed in relief. "Damn, Private, you saved my ass."

Nicholson managed a hoarse laugh. "Glad to, sarge."

Taylor redirected his attention to his leg. It wasn't bleeding too much, he noticed, although it hurt like hell.

 _Just a grazing wound, nothing I'll die from_. He sat up, took off his helmet, then removed his bandana and wrapped it tightly around his leg wound, applying pressure to the wound. Then he remembered someone else who also took a bullet. "Private, go give the Lieutenant a hand."

"Uh," Nicholson swallowed. "Sarge, I—"

"That's an order, Private," Taylor reminded, fitting his Garand with a new clip.

Nicholson carefully walked over to Goodman, who was still clutching his ribs. "Private, help me up, " the Lieutenant said. The Private grabbed hold of his armpits and hauled him upright. Then the Lieutenant pulled a strip of cloth from his kit, and handed it to Nicholson.

"Tie this around me," he ordered. The Private did as he was told, carefully wrapping the Lieutenant's wound, then fastening it.

"That'll do," Goodman said to himself. "Good job, Private."  
Nicholson nodded, not knowing what to say. He shuffled back towards Fraskis as the LT reached for his Thompson sub-machine gun, which had been dropped on the trench floor.

Another squad of fresh Riflemen from Easy company rushed into the trench and took cover, prepared to engage the German infantry that advanced relentlessly against their position.

Taylor peered skyward, spying dark shapes approaching through the sky, which had not been clear over a week. "Fast air inbound!"

Nicholson looked up and cheered, as did the rest of the men in the trench.

A pair of rockets detonated just outside the trench, shaking the ground. Taylor stood up and peeked over the top of the trench. At least one of the rockets had scored a direct hit against one of the Panzers, which was already a burning wreck.

"Give it to them," the Private cheered. "Let them have it!"

A pair of P-47 Lightning fighter-bombers dove from the skies, angels of death incarnate, raining steel and fire from their wings. The heavy frontal armor of the German Panzers did them no good as more rockets screamed through the air and punched through the thin top armor of the German Panzers. Those that missed sent Jerry infantry sky-high.

Or rather, parts of them.

The United States Army Air Force put on a spectacular fireworks show for the Galvanized Iron in Dog and Easy company. Before long, the Krauts had either pulled back or were sprawled, lifeless, all over Elsenborn Ridge. Five enemy tanks and hundreds of infantry had been wrecked by the sortie of P-47s.

Captain Derby came through on the radio, loud as ever. "We got this in the can, boys! Damn fine work out there!"


	3. Chapter 2: Bastogne

**Company of Heroes 2: Ardennes Assault**

 **Chapter Two  
**

 **Bastogne**

 **Baker Company**

"Driver, halt."

Staff Sergeant Fredrick "Freddy" Miller opened the hatch of his M4A3 medium tank and immediately regretted it. A blizzard was brewing, pretty much defeating the purpose of sticking his head out of the coupla.

He slipped back inside, closing the hatch of his tank. No, not his tank. His tank was dead.

After he returned to base, Miller and the rest of his crew had been given an hour-long crash course on how to operate the Sherman. They took the tank out for a spin, and Miller hated it. Sure, it had more armor, and a more reliable HE shell, but then again, all American tanks were made of cardboard—well, except for the Jumbo—and it was really sluggish when compared to his M10. He couldn't use the speed that he had become so accustomed to.

Miller sighed. What's worse, his new platoon-mate was a green tank crew which probably had as much battle experience—combined—as his grandmother.

 _Well, the tank is roomier,_ Miller thought. _And we won't get carpal tunnel from hand-cranking the turret._

"Romeo-one, this is Romeo-two." Sergeant Daniel Martin called Miller on the radio.

"Romeo-two, this is Romeo-one, over," Miller replied.

"I can't see three feet in front of me, over," Martin said.

Miller sighed in disgust. _Green as green can be._

"Sir, Captain is on the radio," Cowalsky informed.

"Good, patch him through," Miller ordered.

"Looks like the elements are on our side in Bastogne boys. The Germans will be blind to our movements in this storm," Captain Edwards began. "Perfect time to strike."

"This will make for a great letter home to my father," Edwards thought aloud. The Captain, while a brilliant tactician, was consumed with things like glory and novelty and wrote letters full of that stuff to his father. Miller had the impression that he was born a couple centuries too late.

"Alright," Edwards got to business. "Sergeant Miller, I want you to lead Romeo and push up the main road. A recon element consisting of a Greyhound and two squads of Cavalry riflemen will be attached to your platoon."

"Roger that, sir," Miller responded.

"Romeo-two, this is Romeo-one," Miller called. "Move out, keep your tank on my tail. Load HE, take out the AT guns."

"Gunner, keep an eye out for enemy tanks." As Stevenson nodded, Miller redirected his words to Private Zacheri. "Loader, AP."

Zacheri loaded the 75mm main gun with an AP shell. "Gun up."

"Driver, forward."

* * *

Miller let the Greyhound get a lead on the main force. It stole its way up the street, Miller and the rest of the detachment trailing fifty meters behind it.

"Siren-four, contact one o'clock, thirty meters," the Greyhound commander reported. "Infantry inside building."

"Romeo-two, do you have visual, over?" Miller asked.

"Target identified," Martin replied.

"Engage, Romeo-two."

A thunderclap tore through the snowstorm, and an orange fireball erupted in front of the building, the explosion pushing back the blizzard, if only for a split second. Then, Martin's tank opened up with its co-axial machine gun, peppering the building with small arms fire.

The Greyhound crew did the same, raking the windows with bullets. But that was not all. When the enemy infantry attempted to exit the building to deploy a Panzerfaust, the armored car unleashed a deadly surprise.

As soon as the trio of would-be-assailants exited the building, the Greyhound fired a canister shot, effectively turning the gun into a giant shotgun. Hundreds of deadly metal fragments ripped apart the Germans, chunks of them collecting into an untidy pile on the front door.

Miller whistled. _That Greyhound crew is no push-over, that's for sure_.

The Greyhound crew made sure that there were no survivors from the engagement, then sniffed around to make sure that there were no German witnesses, either. Once that was completed, the armored car made its way down the road once more.

* * *

The rest of the town was devoid of German defenders, which left Miller with a bad feeling that they might get ambushed. But that didn't happen, and the next place the Greyhound halted the column was right on the outskirts of town.

"Siren-four, contact ten o'clock, one hundred meters, enemy fortified position," the Greyhound commander reported. "Trenches, machine guns, anti-tank guns."

Miller propped open the coupla to get a better view. The snow didn't sting his face as it did previously; the blizzard was dying out.

"That storm's letting up," Miller informed. "Germans are going to try and get reinforcements in, so shake it up."

The Staff Sergeant peered over his shoulder. "Alright boys, time to dismount."

"Move! Get off!" the leader of the Riflemen hollered. Soon, the Cavalry Riflemen had reluctantly gotten off of the two M4 Sherman tanks, and had lined up on either side of the road. Miller hefted his field glasses to his eyes, studying the German position up ahead.

"Alright," Miller began. "I want Romeo-two to follow on my flank, load HE, drop the infantry in the trenches. Siren-four, you drive down the road and cut in sharp to flank, canister those MGs. Riflemen, take cover behind Romeo-one and Romeo-two."

Multiple _yes-sirs_ and _roger-thats_ filtered through the radio in reply.

"Drop some smoke on those AT guns," Miller ordered. Zacheri stepped up to the task, utilizing the Sherman's smoke shells to cover up their advance. One pop, and one cloud of smoke.

"If we don't haul ass none of those boys under attack in Bastogne will make it outa this—I don't want that on my record," Captain Edwards broke in on the radio. "Let's secure that road and give em' some relief!"

Miller nodded, not one to tarnish his own record. "Driver! Push it!"

The Sherman's radial engine growled, the tank creaking and groaning as it advanced. Miller's heartbeat intensified and he silently willed the tank to travel faster.

"Gunner, HE, one shell, at that cloud of smoke," Miller ordered. Kage slowed the tank down to a crawl as Zacheri took the AP shell out of the breech and loaded a HE shell.

"On the way."

The Sherman's main gun recoiled, and a plume of black smoke and dirt joined the white smoke already billowing in the sky.

Zacheri loaded a fresh HE shell into the breach. "Gun up!"

"On the way," Stevenson said.

"Hold fire," Miller interrupted. "Wait until we get a visual on them."

Before long, the wind carried the smoke away, revealing a trench network and an AT gun.

"AT gun, 12 o'clock, one hundred meters!" Miller shouted. Kage slowed the tank down to a crawl once again.

"On the way."

A shell exploded next to the AT gun a split second before Stevenson fired. Only after Stevenson's shell blew apart the gun shield and dropped the crew did Miller realize that that was probably a round from Romeo-two.

 _Damn it, I tell you to fire at the trenches, and your shot strays that much?_ Miller's nostrils flared. Putting that though aside, he ordered the driver to floor it.

Kage gunned the engine, as Cowalsky opened up with his hull-mounted M1919A4 machine gun, trying to pin down any infantry who was standing in front of them. The tank hit a dip and shook violently, jostling the entire crew.

"Driver, halt," Miller ordered. "Rest of you, get on those MGs and let them have it!"

The crew got to work. Cowalsky emptied the rest of the M1919A4 machine gun's magazine at German infantry trying to rush the tank, while Stevenson shot up infantry trying to cower in the trenches. Zacheri weaved around inside the tank, ferrying .30 cal. ammunition to both guns. Miller popped open the hatch and grabbed hold of the pintle-mounted M2HB .50 cal. Ma Deuce. It was intended to be used in an anti-aircraft role, but it worked wonders on enemy infantry. He swung the gun around, chopping down a German infantryman trying to get a Panzerfaust off on his tank.

Just as he dropped the Kraut, Siren-four dived in from the three o'clock vector, ripping up defending infantry as it stormed the defensive position. It then unleashed a canister shot at an AT gun trying to reposition to Miller's assault. Martin in Romeo-two soon stopped next to Miller, and joined the party. Then the infantry came in, rifles and Thompsons howling. Guns fired, ordinance flew, and Germans died.

Perfectly executed assault.

"Romeo-one reporting in," Miller called. "Roads open."

"Roger that, Romeo-one," the radio operator back at base replied. "Recon and scouts are reporting German forces assembling. Be ready for a counterattack."

"We've got ambulances headed up to Bastogne," he continued. "Make sure the corridor is safe."

"Hey, listen up," Miller shouted, getting the attention of everyone nearby. "A convoy of ambulances are coming. Our job is to keep all of them in one piece. Siren-four, you run point. Romeo-two, follow my tank, I'll follow Siren-four's lead. Infantry, take up this position and use it to defend the convoy as it passes."

The fellows on the ground shouted orders at each other, looted German equipment, patched up the injured, and organized a defensive line. Once Miller was certain that everyone was good to go, he gave the order, and the vehicles moved out.

* * *

Miller parked the M4A3 Sherman on the side of the road, AP in the breech. Martin's tank was 50 yards ahead of him, on the opposite side of the street. Siren-four was parked 100 yards behind Martin's tank The three vehicles scanned the terrain, ready to respond to any German offensive.

Soon enough, a dozen W/C 3/4-ton ambulances lumbered down the road, headed towards Bastogne. Miller stole a glance at the formation, grumbled something about why Brass didn't have the brain cells to attach armor to protect them, then resumed looking out. Peering into the woods gave him bad memories of Rocherath.

Shaking that thought off, he remained on-point as the convoy passed. M3 Halftracks laden with infantry lead and tailed the formation, but Miller knew that they would have no chance of survival if German Panzers pounced on them.

Thankfully, the convoy passed, and after a long pause, the same voice came back over the radio. "The wounded are being brought out. Keep security on that road."

Miller grew tense. He hated exfiltrations.

"All stations. This is Siren-four, contact, German infantry patrol," the Greyhound crew reported.

"Do not engage," Miller ordered. There was no need to use tanks when there was only enemy infantry. "Let the Company's mechanized infantry deal with them."

"Roger that, Romeo-one." After the radio fell silent, sporadic bursts of small-arms fire crackled in the direction towards Bastogne.

The convoy soon returned, rumbling down the road. As they began to pass his position, he looked down, and got yet another uncomfortable flashback of the Twin Villages.

"All stations, this is Siren-four, contact," the armored car crew reported. Miller jumped at the call. A pit formed in his stomach, anticipating that he would report enemy Panzer formations. There was no way in hell that they could survive, let alone win the engagement.

"German mechanized patrol, one armored car, one light tank, light infantry," Siren-four finished.

Miller let out a sigh of relief. "Siren-four, this is Romeo-one. Request target location, over."

"Nine o' clock, six hundred meters. They're on the side road heading towards the town, over," Siren-four replied.

"Romeo-two, this is Romeo-one. Engage enemy patrol, over."

"Roger that."

"Driver, push it!"

* * *

The two Sherman tanks plowed through the deep snow, making a beeline for the town.

"Romeo-two, turn right, we're going to flank them," Miller said.

"Roger that," Martin replied.

Miller's head was still outside of his tank, but he crouched in his coupla as to not get hit by stray small-arms fire. He got within twenty meters of the side road when the patrol came into view. A squad of infantry flanked either side of the light tank, a tiny Panzer II, which was armed with a machine gun and an autocannon.

Nothing that could hurt Miller's Sherman.

He slipped back into the tank. "Gunner, twelve o' clock, Panzer II, engage!"

Stevenson had long put the Kraut panzer in his crosshairs. "On the way!"

The tank slowed, its gun boomed, and a 75mm AP shell tore a gaping hole through the Panzer II's side armor, destroying a sizable chunk of its left track as well. The Panzer II immediately ceased to function, and there was no crew bailing out, either.

Cowalsky got on the hull MG, spraying the enemy infantry. They cowered quickly and fell flat on the ground, seeking cover.

"Loader, AP."

"AP up!"

"Gunner, prepare for contact with armored car," Miller said. "Cowalsky, ring Romeo-two. Tell him to load HE and clean up the infantry."

As Cowalsky relayed his message, Stevenson opened up with the co-axial MG, trying to keep the infantry pinned. Martin in Romeo-two passed by just three yards to their left, the tracks creaking and groaning. His tank fired an HE shell at the infantry, knocking a sizable gap in the wooden building they took cover behind and flinging them into the air like ragdolls.

But Romeo-two didn't stop. They charged the remaining infantry, machine guns blaring.

"Goddamnit!" Miller roared, sticking his head out of the hatch. "Martin, pull back! You aren't superman, damn it!"

But Martin, even though his head was sticking out of the coupla, didn't hear a word he said. Romeo-two continued on, driving onto the street.

The Sherman immediately shuddered as a shell connected with the tank. Thanks to the tracer, Miller could see that the shell continued on past the tank.

Miller swore."Romeo-two! Martin!"

Kage was already moving the tank forward, getting into supporting range. All Miller hoped was that they weren't too late.

Suddenly, the tank began to back up, out of the street. Miller let out a sigh and halted the tank as Martin pulled up beside him.

"Did your tank take damage?" Miller asked.

"Yeah," Martin replied, visibly shaken. "A shot ricocheted off of the front armor."

Miller swore in frustration and relief. "Don't charge them next time. Next time you won't be so lucky. Stay here and cover this position."

"Yes sir," Martin responded. "Sir, what—what about my radioman? He just wet himself."

"First contact, hug?" Miller snorted, amused. "Tell him to haul himself together, and clean himself up."

The veteran tank commander changed his tone. "Driver, take us far right. We're going to flank the bastards."

Kage complied, and the tank rolled forward. Using the buildings to obscure the enemy's line-of-sight, they continued to a clearing, then climbed back onto the road.

"Driver, halt," Miller said as soon as he got vision on the enemy armored car. "Target, seven o'clock, two hundred meters."

"Identified," Stevenson reported as soon as the turret swiveled into position.

"Engage!"

"On the way!"

Another AP shell burst through the air, connecting with the engine of the lightly armored vehicle. The engine compartment burst into flames, and soon enough the crew hopped out of the vehicle, high-tailing it into a ditch on the right side of the road.

"Driver forward."

Kage revved the engine, and the Sherman stormed down the road. Stevenson and Cowalsky gunned down the supporting infantry, and quickly got to the location of the burning armored car.

Miller pulled out his Colt M1911 pistol, towered over the frightened crew of three, and demanded that they put their hands in the air.

They instantly complied. A squad of Riflemen came and herded them to the Command Post.

"Romeo-one, be advised. Units in your area disabled a tank," the radio operator reported. "Locate it and destroy it before the Germans get it up and running."

A hunter-killer mission. Miller liked it.

Time for some revenge. "Driver, turn the tank around. Martin! You're coming with us."

"But sir, my radioman—"

Miller swore. "I don't give a damn! Battle's not over! Get your tank over here, now!"

* * *

Miller's tank led the way as they searched for the tank. They decided to head towards Bastogne, driving along a small path, and ideal position to move your tanks without being spotted from the main road.

Bingo. As soon as they got around the first bend, there was a Panzer IV, with its rear facing them and the crew conveniently lined up by the right side of the tank. Pretty much the definition of "caught with your pants down."

"Gunner, engage!" The tank decelerated, and a shell struck the Panzer IV's engine, which sputtered and died. Cowalsky took advantage of the situation and cut down the crew in a single burst like a lawn mower through dry grass. Martin's tank fired as well, the shell carving a groove through the left side of the turret.

"Damn it Martin, stop the tank, then fire," Miller growled, unable to contain himself. Then he directed his attention to Stevenson. "Gunner, reengage. Light the bastard on fire."

"On the way!" An AP shell burrowed straight into the gap where the first shell punched a hole through, lighting the gasoline and detonating the ammunition store. The turret promptly joined the engine cover as they took flight over the outskirts of Bastogne.

"Burn, you son of a bitch!" Miller shouted.

Miller calmed himself just enough to get back to business. "Cowalsky, get on the radio. Inform the Captain that the tank is now a burning wreck. Driver, get us back to base."

Before Cowalsky could patch through, the radio operator called in first. "Germans are tucking tail. They're pulling out.

"That's it, good work boys, the corridor is secured! Relief is on their way."


End file.
